Father of Mine
by PallaPlease
Summary: Fathers teach important things to sons: how to become a man, a husband, a father.  When did Jim have that?  [Working On]
1. Birthday

Father of Mine: Birthday 

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Notes:  Having decided to put the uninspired 'Academia' on hold for however long, I thought I might as well write this string of connected vignettes (or, rather, somewhat longer-than-normal vignettes).  The idea itself has been in my head for quite a while, I just haven't written it yet, oddly enough.  I'm sure it's been done before, and better, but I might as well try to write something of an acceptable quality, no?

Feedback:  Though I undoubtedly sound like a selfish monkey, I would be very appreciative of any feedback those who read would be willing to offer.  I have no means (being fifteen and legally underage for most jobs) to subscribe to the advanced authors thing, which would help me know if people are reading, so, seriously, reviews are the only barometer I have.  Sorry to be rude.  :]

Disclaimer:  I own nothing, not even my soul.  I gave that to Jesus.  The characters belong to Disney, Mister Stevenson, and whoever else bought a corporate chunk, and the lyrics are those of Everclear.  

Set:  Jim's fourth birthday.

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-- Father of mine 

_Tell me where have you been_

_You know I just closed my eyes_

_And my whole world disappeared…_

-Everclear, _'Father of Mine'_

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                He woke, with the sudden giddiness that special days brought to mind, and tossed away his covers with clumsy motions, hands dwarfed in the overly long sleeves of his pajamas.  Stumbling out of his bed, he tumbled to the floor, rolling onto his back and laughing as he wriggled his toes with the sheer glee of it all.  "Mom!" he cried, waving his arms wildly as he sat up forcefully, scratching at his dark bangs and wiggling his nose.  Planting one of his arms firmly on the planks at his back, he craned around, legs twisting to the side and one knee bending up as he peered anxiously at the wide open door that granted him a view of rectangle darkness.  The sunlight dappled through his carefully paned window, splattering over bed and floor in speckles of dark honey, and he moved to rest on his hand and knees before shoving up into a cautious standing position.  "Mom?" he asked anxiously, struck by the childish fear that maybe it wasn't his birthday after all.

                "Jim!" she called with her laughing tone, swooping from one side of the doorway and into his room, hands held behind her back protectively.  He clapped happily, laughing as he ran slipshod over his cluttered floor, sliding a little where his foot caught on a long pants leg, and he came to a respectful pause before her when she granted him a mock-serious face, lifting her chin and raising an eyebrow playfully.  "Do you know," she said gravely, "what's special about today?"

                He almost bounced on his feet, snapping his arm in the air and waving it recklessly as he grinned widely, nose wrinkling up from the force of his splitting lips.  "I know, Mom!" he replied eagerly, near desperately, and he rocked forward on his toes, then back onto his heels with his toes sagely jutting above the floor into the cool air.  "I know!  Can I say it?"  Jim, in all his pristine just-turned-four glory, widened his eyes as adorably as he could, deciding against sticking his lower lip out and settling for simply waving his arm happily about.  "Come on, Mom!"

                "Well," she drew it out thoughtfully, tossing her head to one side and rolling her eyes as if in consideration to the corners, tapping one slipper-clad shoe on the boards, "I suppose I don't have a choice."  

                "It's my birthday!" he all but exploded, the other arm shooting up to join its spread partner, and he beamed at her, fisting his hands in the sturdy cloth of his pale green pajamas.  "Which means," he thought to add, moving a little to the side, trying to look around the straight skirt of her muted pink nightgown, "I'm not three, but I'm four."  He flipped up the appropriate fingers and held them wisely for her to see, possibly count if she wanted to; the gap in his teeth not quite as visible as it once was when he smiled broadly again.

                "Is that so?" she said, obviously impressed, and he nodded vigorously, drawing his fingers back and bouncing this time, wanting very much to see what it was she still held at her back.  "Four whole years?"  He nodded again, widening his eyes and stilling the smile on his face, jutting his lower lip up in a begging pout, and leaned forward hopefully, raising one of his feet to shake the pants free of his heel.  "That's a very big number," his mother told him, her own eyes wide, smile just on the bright side of teasing.  "Four years?" she repeated.  "That's a special age, you know.  You're a big boy now, Jim, and big boys get," she broke off, shrugging and looking to the ceiling as though to tell herself there was little to be discussed or done about it.

                "What?" he pleaded, losing the ability to hold his adorable begging face, and he took a tentative step forward, continuing with, "Mom, what?"  He pulled his hands from his pajamas, moving hastily toward her and trying to see the forbidden object she held hidden, and she merely sidestepped him, turning so her back was once more away from him as she pulled one hand out, wagging her finger reprovingly at him.

                "Now, Jim, be patient," she scolded, and she pulled her other hand from the mystifying area behind her nightgown, a moderately sized box painstakingly wrapped with simple white paper and decorated by hand with small ships and celestial beings.  "Here," she smiled gently, with an amount of surprise and delight when he snatched it away with nary a moment wasted, plopping gracelessly into a loosely crossed-leg sit.  "Jim!" she laughed, falling into a smooth crouch in front of him as he eagerly tore at the ribbon tied into a looping bow at the apex of the box, slightly lopsided from the center.  "It isn't going to run away, you know."

                "Aw, Mom," he intoned with the exasperation of a small child, raising his arms, frowning, to peel the ribbon away and bunching it together, tossing it carelessly aside.  "You don't get it," he added, staring intently at the box and scraping a fingernail, dirt clumped under the white crescent, over the paper left obscuring his prize.  He hunched over it, moving one of his legs out of the way as he shoved the box onto a different side and stately ignored her wince, and studied the paper delicately for the adhesive lining where it had been attached into place.  A few more rough tumbles granted him what he was looking for and he happily dug chubby fingers into the line of overlapping paper, ripping with little abandon and a boyish ferociousness.

                "Don't cut yourself on the paper, Jim," she warned, gathering the paper gradually sinking out of its adopted square shape while he lifted the small wooden box from the wrapping.  "We're going to try and keep any kind of boo-boo out of today's schedule, okay?  It'll make it a lot easier for me."  She picked the ribbon up from a spread pile of various toys, most wielding some sort of vicious and painful-looking weapon, and grimaced at the toys, sadly wrinkling the ribbon into a tangled ball and dropping it into her lap with the paper.

                "I almost got it," replied Jim by way of defense, fumbling with the small latch at the front and beaming once more when he managed to flick it up, quickly plucking the compact chest's flat lid up and gazing deeply at its contents.  When finally he spoke, interrupting her worried musings and unconscious chore of gathering together the present's trash, it was a breathlessly pleased single syllable: "Wow."  He followed it with gushing praise after a second's respite, joyously grasping the immaculately detailed ship inside, cannons and pint-sized spacers etched in precise, unmoving detail, the forever billowing sails made from a light canvas.  

                "Mom!" he cried first, raising the ship aloft and peering at it in order to observe it in arguably better light.  "This is the coolest!  Where did you get it?  Do the spacers move?"  He prodded one in experiment and, though he was momentarily disappointed to find the small blue-suited figure did not move, recovered swiftly from the briefest flare of sadness.  "This has to be the," he struggled for words, clutching his immediately beloved gift to his small chest as he somehow clambered up to his feet while holding it, "the bestest gift I ever got!"  He added a punctual, wide-eyed serious nod at the end, to accent the absolute whole-heartedness he had used in his brief speech.

                "Well, I'm glad," smiled Sarah back at him, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead as she pinned her nightgown's smooth skirt in her hands, keeping the trash from tumbling free while he made a disgusted face and wiped exaggeratedly at his skin.  Standing again, she moved to leave his room as his eyes drifted back to his glorious present, and she smiled, saying brightly, "I have your breakfast ready downstairs, so you need to get dressed.  I'll be opening the inn in a few minutes, and if you are very, very," she stressed the word carefully, "good, then I just might close up early so we can have the inn all to ourselves for a party."  She placed a careful meaning in the last word, enunciating it that the meaning would be clear enough for her engrossed son to catch it, and her subtle ploy worked its efficient magic.

                This unprecedented goodie, the prospect of an actual party, snagged his attention promptly and he gasped, delighted, twirling around and nearly losing his balance as he slipped in his pajamas, holding the ship close to his chest and wrinkling his top up from his belly.  "I love you, Mom!" he found need to tell her exuberantly, dashing in a clumsy manner to his bed and setting his ship with surprising tenderness on the bedspread before tugging impatiently at his top, fingers catching in the miniscule buttons.  "A real party," he told the ragged pirate doll on his bed, growing tired of fighting with the buttons and instead wriggling out of the confining cloth.

                It took a few moments to skin his outer layer of clothing off, racing to a pile of clean clothes in the corner of his room pointedly overflowing the weave basket meant to hold them in, as he never gave himself the opportunity to put the clothes away.  He grabbed the first two things he saw, a small grey shirt and yellow shorts that swept around his knees, and tugged them on hurriedly, snagging his toe on the basket and tripping to the floor with a soft exclamation.  Falling only deterred him for a moment and he used it to grab a pair of mismatched socks from under layered clothing, yanking the tubes over his feet and planting both stiffly on the floor to help lever himself up, the better to dash back to his bed and reclaim his hand-crafted ship.  

                Jim grabbed it with eager hands, holding it in the air in diving motions with his arm as he provided his own running soundtrack, childish explosions and firing sounds coming from between his pursed lips to aid the realism of his imaginary Etherium battle.  Running and sliding out his door, he caught his balance by propping his free hand on the opposite wall of the hallway, leaning dangerously towards the open door of his room before he jogged down the few steps leading to the main landing, from which he could descend into the wide room of the inn.  "Look out, Captain!" he said gleefully, hopping the last step onto the main floor and swerving around round tables, the earliest guests settling themselves in with kind laughter and amused attention as he danced to the smallest table near the bar, where his mother could easiest watch him.  A muted crashing sound ensued as he did his best to imitate a horrible landing with voice alone, knowing better than to actually smash his newly claimed toy on the table.  "I'm hungry, Mom," he spoke plaintively, pushing the ship onto the table's glossy wooden surface and climbing expertly into the chair awaiting his birthday presence.  "Can I eat now, please, please, please?"  He smiled charmingly.

                "How can I say no to a face as cute as that?" she teased, gently setting his laden plate before him, tousling his hair and earning a pleased smile in return.  Her worn green dress had replaced the nightgown, a crisp apron pinned around it and a tightly drawn cap holding her hair up to keep it from getting in the way; by nightfall, the apron would be stained and her hair would be tumbling out of the loosening drawstring protection of her rough cotton cap.  "Now eat up and be good, or no party," she said sternly, raising her eyebrows and thinning her lips impressionably so he nodded, fearful at the thought of losing his desired celebration.

                "Okay," he agreed to the deal, holding the fork in his small fist and leaning close to the plate, working the pale green eggs into his mouth and chewing quickly, swallowing with a dramatic gulp.  Wrinkling his nose distastefully, eggs not being his favorite morning food, he grabbed at the thick wood cup of purp juice, gulping at the sweet violet liquid as a tiny stream dribbled down his chin.  "Icky," he ordered the painted captain of his ship.  "Tell the cook not to make any eggs.  But lots of purp juice," he added brightly, sipping at the cup again and crunching down on a glistening stick of warm bacon.

                He ate in relative silence, occasionally making comments for the captain's silent benefit, staring at the lofted ceiling and kicking his legs absently under the table, and drank greedily at the deep cup welling purp juice up for his consumption.  Sucking at the drink, his eyes fell on the front door and he wrinkled his eyebrows together, trying to remember something he knew was absolutely, without a doubt very important, slowly placing his purp juice down on the wooden table as he stared with purple-stained lips at the door.  Puzzled, he tried to recall what it was, and his eyes snapped open with honest surprise, quickly changing with open, excited delight.

                "Mom!" he yelled, hastily shifting his legs into the chair and moving to rest on his knees, hooking one arm protectively around the back of his chair as he waited impatiently for her to turn from replenishing a small, ragged Feline's drink.  "Mom, Mom!  It's really, really important!"  She turned, lifting the pitcher protectively as she gave him a doubting, exasperated look, apologizing softly to the Feline, who nodded understandingly.  "Really, it is!" he defended, nodding powerfully as he settled back on his legs and she sighed, crossing the floor anyway.

                "What is it, Jim?" she asked, resting the pitcher on the table for the moment as she patiently awaited his answer.  "And it had better not be another animal you dragged in, because we've gone over this time after time after time," she hastened to clarify, inwardly cringing at the mere image of another terrified furry creature skittering around in her kitchen.

                "No, Mom," he said in a voice suggesting he thought her weird, though he asked quickly, "But could I have a pet?"

                "No," she flatly echoed his first response, narrowing her eyes in a way that clearly emphasized her standpoint on the issue.  He looked temporarily deflated, shoulders sinking a little before he regained his important thought, straightening his shoulders and back as his eyes lit.

                "He's coming today, Mom!" he cried happily, fanning his toes out in order to burn the smallest amount of energy that was swamping over his very being.

                She felt a pang and quickly covered it with a falsely bright smile, replying with a forced jesting tone, ruffling his short hair, "Of course Doctor Doppler is coming, Jim, you know he wouldn't miss your birthday."  She was swift in picking up the pitcher by its elegant swan handle, pausing for a fateful moment to refill his cup with the rich purp juice held within its silver confines, and it was enough time for him to shake his head in violent disapproval of her answer.

                "Not him, Mom," he responded, wrapping his hands around his cup and holding it still until he was to be done speaking.  "I know he's coming, 'cause he's always here anyway, but I mean, you know," he found himself overwhelmed with the emotional happiness springing up inside, flashing his widest smile at her.  "Dad's coming!" he finally crowed triumphantly, tossing his hands into the air again and nearly upsetting his cup with the momentum.  "He said he was gonna come to my birthday when he left," he counted on his fingers, "five months ago, and today's my birthday, so Dad's gonna be here."  The logic was foolproof in his youthful mind, a concrete truth that could not be argued against or ever possibly denied, and he persisted, "He said so, Mom."  A sudden flicker of doubt struck, a deeply-rooted worry, and he asked in a quivering voice, "He'll be here, right?"

                "Of course he will, Jim," she answered automatically, smiling the same false smile that could still fool him, and she leaned to kiss his forehead again.  Jim allowed her to and even gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, attention riveted yet on knowing resolutely that his father was coming, and he tilted his cup carefully to his mouth, sipping at the juice.  Her smile hesitated, and then dwindled before collapsing, and Sarah turned away in the passage of a few seconds, certain that she could not permit him to see whatever truth he might read from her face.  She sent a quick prayer up, wanting desperately for her husband, his father, to return from the distant voids of the Etherium, back to the family that was waiting for him and the son that worshipped him.

                "My dad," she heard him say to the docilely listening spacers of his small ship, "is a hero.  Of course he is!  'Cause I know my dad's gotta be fighting pirates or something, and he's coming back today, 'cause it's my birthday.  He said he would."

                Sarah tightened her grip on the pitcher and hurried to attend to the customers waiting her assistance, trying to lose herself to the everyday pressures of running her own business as her son chattered to his inanimate companions.

-

                He waited by the window, the small party forgotten as the silent duo watched him gazing anxiously out the glass separated into perfect squares, all but pressing his nose to the cold surface, eyes flickering in all directions to try and peer through the dark for the familiar broad-shouldered figure of his father.  "He's coming," he said quietly, despairingly, to the ship he held clasped to his leg, kneeling on the cushions under the wide bay window, hands reaching up to rest flat on either side of his head.  He knocked his head along the glass, shoulders very slowly beginning to slouch down, his entire body motionless as his eyes continued to move endlessly, his body wired with the small hope that his father was coming.

                Once, he thought he saw a figure shuffling through the dark, trudging through pooling mud as the sky split through the heavens, rumbling a dark burst and sending a thimble raindrop to splatter on the smooth glass, heralding the downpour of more shivering drops.  He straightened, clothes exchanged for pajamas and palms pressing harder with his happiness, nearly crying out that his father was finally here until he saw, with a sharp pain inside his chest, that it was nothing but a hobbling bird ruffling feathers in the impromptu natural shower.  With that, seeing that there was naught outside but a mud-spattered crane, he sank back, one hand trailing down the glass to rest with fingertips alone touching it.

                "Jim," Sarah said helplessly behind him, padding over the floor to wrap her arm around him and hug him with all the gentle, saddened breaking they both felt inside, and he turned to look at her, blinking his eyes quickly to hide the tears that were gathering.  His father had always said crying was a weakness.

                So Jim turned back to the window, watching with no hope for a figure that would not come.

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End Notes:  The end scene was probably familiar…was this all right?  What say you?  :]


	2. Quiet

**Father of Mine:**  Quiet

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Notes:  This bit will be of a more simplistic quality than the first; this is set before that first part and is marginally different in quality and whatnot. 

Feedback:  Even flames are better than nothing.  .

Disclaimer:  Still don't own 'em.  

Set:  Jim at the age of two, I believe.

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_Father of mine_

_Take me back to the day_

_When I was still your golden boy_

_Back before you went away…_

-Everclear, _'Father of Mine'_

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                Jim made it a game for himself, sitting on the bottom stair and being as quiet as he could be, mustering all of his reserves to keep voiceless and distinctly out of the way.  Peering through the cracks between the slender curves of the bars holding the railing to the staircase, he clasped small hands around the two bars on either side of his head, following the familiar shape of his mother moving from table to table in her unending cycle of work and friendly chatting.  She gave him comfort in that unique way mothers had, a protective person he could always trust to be there, and when he was sad, he knew she would hug him and tell him mother things.

                Sometimes he tried to do things he knew she liked, such as carrying dishes or picking flowers, but those things made her groan almost angrily when he inevitably tripped or picked flowers he wasn't supposed to.  There was one thing he knew she liked a lot, something he could always manage to do if he tried really hard and concentrated until his eyes crossed and he couldn't even sit up straight anymore.  If her week had been rough and he knew part of it was because he had been too noisy or pestered her for answers to questions he didn't even understand in the first place, he made sure to be quiet for at least one day the next week.  

                He would choose someplace where no one could trip over him, like on the bottom stair or on his own bed, and sit quietly, not speaking nor racing about for however long he could manage it without needing to do something just to break the boredom.  There were a few times when he was perfectly quiet, a little angel as one of the older women had commented once with a pinch of his cheek he hadn't liked at all, and even though he hated trying to be calm and restraining himself from doing fun things, he thought it was worthy.  She would always smile at him at the end of the day and pull him into her lap to hug him with a ferocious bear hug, tickling his neck until his head lolled back as he laughed uncontrollably at the feathery texture, and she would laugh with him.

                "I'm very proud of how good you were today," she would say in her serious, loving voice, wrinkling her fingers into his short brown hair and poking his nose with her forefinger to make him cross his eyes reflexively.  "Sometimes you drive me nuts, Jim, but you're such a sweet boy.  Maybe if you were quiet like this all the time, you'd never get into trouble?"  It was a suggestion she always made and one he routinely ignored, finding it much easier to do what he wanted than what it seemed everyone else asked him to do.

                But he had woke crying in the morning, remembering the most fleeting of images in his mind, a frightening thought that maybe his dad wasn't coming home ever, and that it was his fault.  He had stayed in his bed, slowly shrinking under the covers, and holding his favorite toy to his chest as he rubbed at his face, not wanting to wake his mother up so early with not even the sun awake yet.  With the impeccable logic of a child, he was certain that his father might not come home because he had been too noisy, and so he had decided to be quiet.

                Maybe if he were quiet enough, his dad would come home on one of the massive ships that took him away, a tall figure he couldn't remember the face of and had blurry memories of the voice that must have been so important.  After all, if being quiet made his mother feel better, then why wouldn't it work with his father?  And if his father was staying out in the Etherium because he was being too much of a pest, then it made just as much sense that if he stayed quiet long enough, he would come home.

                Everything in it made perfect sense to Jim, a chain of thoughts and proven facts that he could connect together to find the goal he was satisfied with, and he smiled, the gap in his teeth prominent as he tightened his grip, excited, around the bars.  It occurred to him that if he was very quiet for the next few days, maybe his dad would come home even earlier, and he felt a sense of pride for working it all out on his own, without having to ask his mother for help.  He stayed on the last step, pudgy bare feet sliding silently over the polished wood floor, arms hooked around the bars as he peeked through the wooden cylinders at those milling around and talking in the inn's vaulted room, and he rolled his lips in to hold them together in an attempt to keep himself silent.  There was a mild rumbling in his tummy and he leaned back from the railing, smacking both of his palms on the wrinkled shirt covering it as if to hold the hunger pangs in and keep them perfectly noiseless.

                Looking helplessly at the various delicious foods laid out in front of the cheerfully loud customers, Jim forlornly sank his shoulders, curling his toes in and watching his mother, harried but still smiling pleasantly, swerve around, between tables with steaming, laden plates and bowls.  He wanted to stay wholly quiet, perfectly out of the way, but he wrinkled his nose from the effort of ignoring his hunger.  He wanted to eat, too, and he wanted to be good enough that his dad would come home, and he tried to ignore the first though he could see with ravenous eyes pastries and meats.  Thusly torn, Jim began the one thing he had the least control of, ripping apart as he needed to eat but would need to speak to get the food, and he tried to keep his lips together as the first tear peeled down his cheek.

                "Jim," his mother started in a distracted tone, turning from accepting the collection of silver coins a rotund being was handing her with one of his many tentacles, and she moved to look for him anywhere around her ankles or legs.  Growing alarmed when she could not find him anywhere about her person or anywhere in the main floor's expanse itself, she twisted sharply, fingers tightening imperceptibly around a crumb-dusted tray, and finally spied him crouched on the lower steps.  "Oh, Jim, you scared me," she half-scolded, her tone more relieved than upset, and she noticed upon closer inspection that her beloved toddler was crying.  "Jim!" she said again, this time with surprise and alarm as she hastily set the tray on an abandoned table that needed to be run over with a damp cloth.  Hurrying as best she could in the swishing confines of a skirt and tightly knotted apron, she fingered a loose strand of dark hair tumbling from her cap behind the protruding curve of her ear.

                He stared at her with immeasurably sad, big green eyes, short brown hair mussed into a disheveled appearance by rambunctious boyhood behavior earlier, and she clamped her hands on either side of his face, scraping away tears with her palms and studying his face anxiously.  As she knelt on the floor before him to see him the better, her eyes lit on his thinned lips and she slapped her hands down on her knees, saying with growing exasperation mingled with a hint of anger, "James Pleiades Hawkins, what do you have in your mouth?"  Jim's returning look was more than a bit startled, eyebrows lowering to wrinkle together as he let her clasp his tiny wrists in her hands, and then he shook his head in argument of her words, still sniffling as his wet cheeks glittered under the flickering solar lights.

                "Don't give me that," she warned, lifting her hands to pry gently at his closed mouth, fingertips pushing against the sun-tanned skin, and he shook his head again, trying to pull back before she ruined his protective measure.  "Jim, I need to see what you have in your mouth.  What if it's something dangerous?  Remember when you swallowed that floon berry?  Do you remember how sick you were?"  At his blank expression, completely devoid of recognition or any faint response that might prove he had memory of that unpleasant circumstance, she sighed wearily and caught his jaw in her hands when he tried to move away, her fingers prodding gently into his cheeks, forcing them up and causing his lips to purse unwillingly.  "Jim, stop it," she order sternly, taking advantage of the loosened clamping of lips to pull his jaw open, narrowing her eyes to see what, if anything, was caught on his tongue, in his teeth, or halfway down his throat.  

                After a moment's careful questing, she leaned back, a little guilty and amused under his deeply reproving glare, small arms crossing over his chest and mouth twisting downward into a childish frown.  "Nothin' in mouth, Mama," he scowled, adding plaintively, "Why make talk?  Didn't wanna.  Wanna stay quiet, like this."  He made an elaborate _shh_ sound, sticking his finger up in front of his pursing lips, the warm air expelled forcefully and with the frankness of a small child, which was undoubtedly fitting.

                "Oh," she replied in single syllable shame, and she leaned to kiss his forehead in sincere repentance, earning a laugh from him.  "That's very nice of you, Jim, but you scared me," she said, making her tone gentle and loving at once, lifting a clean corner of her apron to rub at his glistening face.  He raised his chin, contorting his face and grimacing cutely as she scrubbed teasingly at the curving swells of his still chubby face, and he stuck his tongue out in disgust of the cleanly activity.  "Don't do that, or your face will stick like that," she played and, thinking on it, he stuck his tongue out even further, crossing his eyes as well.  "Jim!"  She laughed and grabbed him, twirling him off the stairs and onto her before he could tumble to the floor, sliding herself and landing on the floor, knees bending up.  "Now, why were you being quiet, silly?"

                He looked up from where he was cast awkwardly, lifting his head and somehow scrambling off to crouch on the floor by her, and he said, seriously, "Quiet Jim is good Jim."  He placed his finger in front of his lips again and gave her a soulful look, slowly pulling his hand down to fumble his fingers together and over one another.  "Think if really quiet, Daddy come home 'gain," he explained, and he continued hastily, "but Mama make talk, so now Daddy not come.  Hafta be quiet 'gain, make Daddy home."  

Realization struck and she made a soft, understanding noise, her own face cresting into a saddened existence, and she carefully stood, crouching herself to lean her head down and glance into his own lowered eyes.  "Jim, Daddy didn't leave because of you," she spoke gently, "he loves us very, very much."  Jim slowly raised his eyes, chin clasped to his collar, and she cupped his cheek in her palm, soothingly speaking in loving tones, "You know that, Jim.  He has to go to the Etherium so he can help earn money."  

The concept of money still made little sense to him, an abstract and bizarre thought he put little faith or interest in, but he knew his mother earned enough money to do the things she was always fretting over, something he had learned by watching and listening to frustrated mumblings on occasion.  "Mama get money," he reproached, finding the fallacy in her speech.

"Yes," she agreed, brushing her hands along her apron in a dismissive gesture, to rid it of what few crumbs still clung tenaciously to the cotton cloth, "I do make enough money running the inn.  But your father was raised to think it was always a man's job to earn the money, and because I already ran the inn when I met him, he had to find some other way."  It wasn't a whole truth, but her oddly perceptive child was yet too young to fully catch the weakness of her argument, and it was enough to satisfy him for the moment's passage.

"But Daddy come home," he reminded her, anxiously, and she smiled, nodding in an exaggerated fashion to further calm him.

"Daddy will always come home," she promised, bending a little and propping her hands on her knees as one of the customers in the inn mused aloud where the keeper had disappeared to.  "I promise that Daddy will never, ever leave you, Jim."

"Cross your heart," he demanded, leaning to hug her around her knees stubbornly until she would surrender to his order, and he gave her his sincerest pouting glower, which only served to backfire, though she played along to it, stilling her smile.

"Cross my heart, hope I die," she intoned from memory, and she carefully unhooked his arms from her legs.  "Now, Jim, would you like something to eat?"

"Yes!" he nodded frantically, holding his arms up, sleeves sliding just a little down the skin of his arms, and she scooped him up with practiced ease.  "Wanna eat lots an' lots," he continued, wrapping one of his arms behind her neck and waggling the fingers of his other to better convey his want for food.  "But make extra, 'case Daddy come home 'day," Jim made sure to add, smiling cherubically when she turned to look at him with a peculiar expression on her face.

"Of course, Jim," she said, protecting the illusion that kept him dreaming.  "After all, who can say if Daddy won't come home today?  And if he doesn't, maybe he will tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," he repeated with some difficulty, stressing each syllable with a childlike grasp for knowing what it meant.  After a quick moment, he nodded solemnly and raised his arm from her neck, holding both of his hands in the air as she set him delicately into a chair with raised side-rails near the bar, knowing fully well that her son was more than capable of leaping out of a chair if it had no sides.  "Keep quiet, Daddy get home soon?" he asked, craning around to stare hopefully at her.

"Missus Hawkins, if you don't mind," one of the seated women suggested with a prick of irritation in her voice, and the haggled brunette turned from her son to flash a patient smile.

"Just a moment, Miss Hornfire," she called, and she returned her attention to her son.  "Jim, he didn't leave because of you," she clarified gently.  "I just told you why."  He nodded, but he did not understand, and she hurried to gather her tray again, sweeping over the floor, skirt flaring slightly with each step as she moved to aid the woman waiting amidst a faint hint of impatience.

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End Notes:  Feedback is always appreciated, especially as I obviously need some critical help.  ^-^;


	3. Cry

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Father of Mine: Cry

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Notes: This part was actually written after the fourth part, but I checked the age I had the fourth part set at (ten) and decided I was skipping too many years. Now, I don't know if there is an official age for Jim when his father left, so until I manage to get a copy of the art/making of book (my aunt is supposed to be getting a copy at Barnes & Noble) and check to see, it'll be ten. Having three younger brothers at various ages, I've certainly been acquainted with what each age looks like, and Jim _looks_ ten to me when his father leaves. Then again, he was one heck of an articulate three-year old…^-^

Feedback: Pwease?

Disclaimer: If I owned them…*ominous music* Doesn't matter. Don't own 'em.

Set: Age of seven. The age of getting pounded into the dirt by jerks. *horrible flashbacks*

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__

I remember blue skies

Walking the block

I loved it when you held me high

I loved to hear you talk…

-Everclear, _'Father of Mine'_

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Trudging up the winding steps carved carefully up the plateau was a necessary evil, and he kept his eyes focused on each step in front of him to keep his balance and to avoid tripping. The fierce stinging in the back of his eyes he pretended wasn't there, though had he allowed the tears to come, they would have blended perfectly with the slick wetness already spotting his face, keeping the dirt and red welts noticeable. He dragged his bag behind him, the hollow fabric smacking over the roughly hewn steps and making empty shuffling sounds, and he rubbed the back of his hand under his nose, a breath hitching in his throat. For a moment he struggled with the slight burning in his chest, wanting more than anything to keep the tears and the sobs and the pain inside but hating the pressure rending his lungs, and then he buckled his head forward, a soft keeling noise in the exhaled air. 

He climbed another step, slowly, broken gulps and silver crescent tears growing a little more frequent with the passing shifts of fractional daylight, and he wondered if his mother would be angry at him if he tracked mud inside. Glancing at the sky, tears melting away at the blinding daggers of sunlight, he felt his shoulders shaking deeply, strongly, and when he dared to lean his head back down, moving forward up the dusty steps, the lapse of salty moisture started prickling again. Somehow he picked his way up the side, biting his lip hard until it bled in hopes of hiding the shame of weeping, and he wove his numb fingers tighter around his bag's faded strap. Still, the crying came back, bursting past his resolve each time to make him stagger just enough to stop, streaks of sticky cleanliness passing through the dirt rubbed harshly into his cheeks and chin before tickling the skin under his face. 

If he had cried at school, it would have been worse. If he had ever, for even the faintest second, let any one of the boys who had taunted and teased him, pushing him into the dirt, see any tears or hear any whimpers, anything they would see as weakness and girly admission, it would have hurt a thousand times more. The few other times he had found himself in the trap, he had always escaped, wriggling free or running to the doors of the building, and he had never let his mother know that he had been mocked. 

He had never bled before, either, and he had never been shoved to the ground or tripped into an old, tepid puddle from one of the dark storms. Wiping at his face, pulling his arm into his sleeve to better use it as a makeshift cloth, he paused at the top, staring around at the docks spun out from the plateau's smooth top like the spokes of a large wheel. He looked as he always did for any galleons or schooners, anything that could be holding his father, vainly hoping as he dried his face to look at each empty dock until there none were left to futilely glance toward. The tears did not come now, ashamed hurt replaced inside by a sort of grounding sadness, and he lowered his head, dragging his bag behind him as he crossed the sloping, grassy hill to the door of the Benbow Inn. Passing through a thin puddle, lopsided shoes dampened a little further by the wetness, he lifted his bag and hugged it as he would a shield, hand reaching for the knob on the door.

He twisted and pushed, hesitating at the mouth of the inn as he saw the unusual blankness where normally he would see a crowd of people, and he remembered that the spring festival had opened in the morn. It made the effort of stepping quietly into the inn easier, kicking his shoes off and peeling away his socks to stuff them soaking into the mouths of his abandoned shoes, and he pulled the door as quietly shut as he could, afraid of his mother hearing from wherever she was. He grabbed his shoes, thin fingers spreading almost painfully to hold the leather together as he moved to the stairs, sniffling and swallowing heavily amidst a resolve to hide the clothes before his mother could find any scrap of condemning evidence.

The wood was familiar under his bare feet, a glossy oaken strength that supported his weight with a silent grace, and he turned just slightly, wincing as he saw a few thin puddles on the steps where the droplets kept safe in shoes, away from the sunlight, had collected. But he could explain that away, say he had tracked it in from the puddles out front, and even though he hated lying to his mother, it would be easier than having to tell her what they had said. He tightened his grip on the shoes, shifting uncomfortably in the heavy burden of damp and filthy clothes, and flicked his gaze back up the stairs, taking another sticky step up before his mother appeared at the end of the platform leading from stairs to rooms. Immediately, he headed to go back down, not wanting to have to do anything but hide.

"Jim," she started, busy with a ledger she was flipping through with her usual worried expression over the expenses, "I'll need your help getting some of the rooms clean for tonight, after people start wandering back from the spring-fest, and--" 

She looked up, feet stepping smoothly over the floor and obscured by the straight fall of her cotton skirt, and he saw the sort of expression on her face that either meant he was in deep trouble or pirates had attacked a dear personal friend, and as the latter had yet to happen, he figured he was in trouble. Nonetheless, he attempted a smile sorely out of place in his face streaked with tears and dirt and red scrapes, eyes rimmed with a swollen crimson, and said meekly, "Hi, Mom."

"What happened?" was her answering cry, the ledger placed hurriedly on the railing along the platform as she scooped her skirt into one hand and nearly ran around the corner, hurrying as fast as she could down the stairs. He backed a few paces, scrubbing hard at his face in hopes of pretending he hadn't cried, and he noticed he had let his bag drop at some point, but it left his mind quickly. Trying for another weak smile, fingers fidgeting nervously in the dirtied cloth of his trousers, he gasped only slightly when she caught his face squarely in her hands, mild pain arriving where her fingertips brushed the rough scrapes. "Jim, what happened?" she repeated, still worried, but with a hint of serious no-nonsense in her tone.

"Nothing," he said before he thought, boyish pride getting in the way. "Nothing happened, Mom," he added in a quieter voice, one almost apologetic, and he winced as she ruffled his ragged bangs up to study his forehead. Aside from some dark smudges of dirt smeared thickly at an angle with his eyebrows, there were few signs of wear along the skin, and he pulled back a little, not wanting to have to devoid himself of the things he didn't want to guiltily burden her with. It didn't matter what the kids at school said about his father anyway, and besides, he knew she needed little else to worry about, what with the inn and him constantly finding things to get into and then stuck in. "Don't worry," he said almost in a murmur, quelling a bit at her righteous, narrow-eyed look.

"Jim," she stated clearly, "something happened, because I think I would notice if my son came home every day covered in dirt, soaking wet, and bleeding."  
"It's not bleeding," he protested, and then, as if to make sure, he touched his cheek tentatively and found that, sure as he had said, he was not bleeding. That was not to say it would not have taken a great deal more pressure to ensure that he would bleed, but in any case he was momentarily relieved to find he was free of any blood. "And some guys were just goofing around anyway," he continued almost obliviously, trailing off when he realized mayhap he was saying the wrong thing.

"What kind of goofing around has you beaten up?" she demanded, gripping his shoulders firmly and marching him up the stairs as he leaned back, surprised, before giving in from his futile last struggle. "Goofing around is when you spit seeds at the girls you like," she persisted nearly angrily, "not when you push other boys around. Weren't the teachers watching you? When did this happen?" She directed him with expertise down the hall and marching up a small set of stairs that led to her room, bringing him straight through the door and across the nigh spotless carpet into the large washroom.

Still hung up on the comments about seeds, girls, and bullying kids, Jim blurted, "But I didn't! I don't hit anybody, Mom," he looked at her anxiously, "and 'sides, girls got weird cooties anyway." He was sidetracked for a moment, caught in the disgusting idea of any girl being liked, and he grimaced, shoulders quivering a little with the force of his horror as she let go of his shoulders and reached for the towel by the washbasin. 

"Jim," she said softly, "what happened?" The towel was wettened quickly, the pitcher by the washbasin overturned to spill water onto the absorbent cloth, and she wrung it swiftly between two heat-calloused hands, shaking the towel out and dabbing it to his face. He jerked back in response, the cool droplets stinging the superficial red spots on his face, and she captured his chin in her hand, bent over and keeping him still as she carefully passed the cloth along the rounded contours. "I'm your mother. Can't you please just tell me?" Her voice was a lulling softness, pitched low and gentle to keep him from any inexplicable childish upsetting, and she pressed her fingers, swathed in the cloth, closer to his face in order to peel away a stubborn clod of dried mud. 

"It was stupid," he said, voice muffled by the cloth passing over his mouth and rubbing away a layer of dirt to expose a faint scratch on his lower lip. "They're stupid. 'S'not important anyway. It's not like they hurt me anyway." As soon as the words had left his mouth, the instant the cloth had moved up to clean his other cheek, he knew it was one of the worst things he could have said, her face clouding over and her lips thinning in a way that foretold either a lecture or something else he was confident he wouldn't like.

"I have," she replied calmly, her voice nonetheless verging on a darker tone, "a seven-year old son standing in the middle of my washroom, covered in dirt and with scrapes all over his face. Jim, how is that not getting hurt? How is them, whoever they are because you won't tell me, shoving you around not hurting you? What did they do?"

"Nothing," he cried, wanting to glare but not being able to. "They didn't do nothing, Mom! I'm fine. We were just playing and I got shoved into something, but they didn't mean to. It was an as-dee," he stumbled over the word, not knowing how to say it, and lapsed into a miserable silence while she swept the dirt whispered over his forehead away with a smooth flick of her hand.

"An accident?" she suggested quietly and he nodded silently, blinking his eyes hard at the returning stickers that were sharpened teardrops. "Jim," she sighed heavily, "an accident is when you forget to do your homework, not when you come home from school needing two baths and an entire box of bandages." She leaned slightly back, straightening her hips just so, and she studied his face with the critical, omnipotent eye of a practiced mother, pausing before she asked again, gently, "What did they do, Jim?" After he refused to meet her eyes, focusing his own sea-shaded jewels on the wall just over her shoulder, she breathed out quietly, disappointed and hurting for her son, and pushed the cloth over the thin lining counter into the waiting basin. "What did they say, Jim?"

He looked her in the eyes, then, a startled shiver in his features as though he still could not place how his mother could time and time again whittle it down to the core of the problem, and bit his lip, sucking on it as he tried to think of a way out of answering.

"Jim," she repeated, almost warningly, cupping his chin firmly in her hands, and he blinked harder than before.

"They said Dad was a no-good skippin' loser and that he hated me," he finally answered, voice dipping into a whisper. "That I was too stupid an' weird for anybody to love me, and that he kept leaving because he didn't want me around."

It surprised him, then, to see his mother crying, her face wrinkling and eyes tilting with the curve of her eyebrows, and he didn't want to cry, either, but he felt helpless, completely without control seeing the same broken expression on her face that he had felt all day. They were quiet tears first, a silent shimmer that swept down her cheeks in slow, deliberate trickles, and then the first ripped sob came from her lips, scaring him with the depth of foreign emotion that he nearly recognized but fell short of knowing. She sank, crippled to her knees, and she was at eye level with him, her hands moving to his shoulders and pulling him roughly, lovingly, into a hug that somehow frightened him even further with the way that it seemed to tell him some secret she had yet to voice.

He didn't know how to stop his mother from crying; she was supposed to stop him from crying. It was how it had always been, and now she was the one crying, hugging him like he was a lifeline, and it scared him so that he was crying and holding her, wanting to pretend the entire day hadn't happened.

"I'm so tired of this, Jim," she said, pulling away as she continued crying, moving back enough that he was, for the first time, taller than her. "I'm tired of your father being gone and me having to run the Benbow on my own, and having to make sure everything runs well enough that we have the money to keep living and paying for everything," he remembered the ledger, the anxious face she wore habitually whenever she went over the numbers just one more time with a carefully inked pen nub in hopes that a number had been added wrong or that maybe this one thing hadn't cost as much, "and I'm just so tired. I can't do this all on my own, anymore, and I don't know how I've even gotten this far." She took her hands from his shoulders, covering her face with them as though to hide from view the glimmering traces painting her cheeks, the gentle, feminine curves of her strong and true features, and he flexed his fingers hesitantly.

"I lied, Mom," he forced out, quickly wiping at his cleaned, teary face to take from his skin the staining, salted water. "None of the guys said that at school." He tried a smile, wearing it uncomfortably as he would shoes five sizes too small, and said in a helpless voice, "It was a stupid joke, Mom. Nobody did that. It's all a lie, see?" And that was easier to say than watching his mother cry.

-

He had stayed in his room for the rest of the evening, eating a voiceless meal with his mother picking at the food she had on her plate without taking a single bite, rearranging the careful design on the porcelain into a dead mess of swirled colors and faded texture. It was delicious, he knew that in the back of his head, but he found no taste in the lumpy bites he chewed and forced down his throat around the knot that seemed to have adopted some form of temporary residence there. It was bland to his mind, a pallet of food that was empty and far from filling, and he continued eating until a wave of overstuffed nausea struck him, reminding him that even though he couldn't tell anymore when to stop, there was still a place to stop at. 

Rubbing his knuckles over the sheets of his bed, kneeling by the bed on his knees and resting the side of his head on the crisp fabric, he whispered, "God, please help." That was all he could say, a succinct plea for help from the last person he could turn to, and he closed his eyes, mouthing an appropriately proper ending for the quick prayer. Nothing else was made known to be done, and he wrapped his arms around his head, trying to hide his face in the crook of his elbow where the pajamas were warm and dark, engulfing and swallowing with their brief annihilation of all he had previously seen around him.

"Jim?" he heard his mother saying with a bright tone in her voice and he lifted his head quickly, scrubbing his sleeves painfully across his face, over the scratches and sore spots as he clambered into his bed. "The postman just came to our door," she smiled at him, at her boy spreading his legs flat in a display of misery and innocence. "He was a little late because of the festival," she continued carefully, and he smiled cautiously back at her, not seeing any of the scary sadness of earlier, "and he apologized several times, but he brought this for you." She handed to him a large book, a pebbled surface bound in an older style, the kinds that had preceded the more modern stylistics used for school books, and uneven pages kept locked tightly within the covers, and he took it with a soft, surprised sound.

Jim studied the cover, curious, and he shifted around in his bed, legs falling over the side and bouncing as she sat carefully beside him, a secretive smile on her lips. "'Mechanics,'" he started, reading slowly and looking up to her for encouragement; she nodded and, leaning closer to his head, pointed a gentle finger to the continuing title scripted in an elegant handyman's writing. "'Mechanics,'" he repeated, wriggling and sitting straighter with the sudden self-importance of reading it to her, "'and Building a Proper Surfer.'" Puzzled, he stared blankly at it, the words bringing a faint recognition to his mind, and he glanced quizzically once more at his lovely mother, earning a soft smile and a beckoning movement of her hand that eagerly asked him to open it.

He shrugged and pried the cover open, his eyes widening at the explosion of light, the delicate construct of metal and photosensitive canvas arching out to greet him as it came from the page, a friendly masculine voice intoning the same words he had just read from the cover. "Your father sent this for you to have," she said in the corner of his hearing, smile reflecting in her voice, and he held a hand out to the untouchable object swirling above the pages amidst the shafts of gold and enticing edges.

"Wow," he breathed.

****

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End Notes: I'm probably going to load the next part unedited (with the original age of ten in it). I'm going to Egypt this coming Sunday, with my family, to visit my dad (he's an air force pilot and whatnot), and I'll have it loaded by Friday of this week. As soon as I find out the truth, I'll edit the chapter where need be and repost it. ^-^ I will be posting in Egypt, but not for about a week (during which I'll be adjusting to jetlag, feminine inferiority, and writing myself senseless).

Added Note: Narf! Right, well, thank God I managed to figure out the official shtuff before I posted the next part. Eight years, Leland, got it. I'm still tweaking a few things (like having Leland's job changed a little – more on that next part), but forgive me? I'm currently editing the next part, trying to see if I need to change the way Jim speaks (ten and eight have marginal differences in yakkin', but, geez…). Be forewarned that the next chap has lots of pointless description – I wrote it a while ago, and a mechanic friend of mine thought the opening was hilarious ("You're pulling this out of your ear, aren't you?" as he put it), so I'm keeping it. Jerk.

Thanks: _Celeste Rose,_ twice, and Silver will undoubtedly appear later in the fic (currently, I think after about three or four more parts). _Unable To Cry, _I got the same sort of reaction from my best friend, the sadness thing (and then was informed if I didn't have a happy ending, she would smack me harder than norm). _Team Bonet, _it wasn't harsh at all, and the comments were very welcome. I think I've kept the description as in check in this part as I could – and I think the second part was a bit sweeter than the first to counterbalance. ^-^; _Tigrin,_ I've wanted to use 'Father of Mine' in a songfic for well over a year and, in a depressing way, when I saw TP for the first time, I realized I had found the one character that could actually fit the song. I finally have proof that all those Doctor Suess books have infiltrated my unconscious mind…_Fani Lirui, _love your name, by the way. ^-^ And I was planning a teenage Jim chapter (a couple, actually), pre-_Legacy,_ so that works out, no? ;]

Ah! But it means a great deal that you all have taken the time to comment on my story, and I hope you continue to enjoy – sort of. ^-^ Have a wonderful summer!


	4. Girl

**Father of Mine:** Girl

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Notes:  Argh!  I need to stop this rampant stupidity of mine and actually figure out the facts of something before I start writing…I still think Jim looks ten, but, eh, who am I to argue with people who know?  I am, however, amused that I worked Sarah's age out by guesswork and my own theories before I found out the official shtuff.  Anyway!  This is the first time I've written Jim's father – sort of – and I certainly hope it's all right.  I do think my interpretation of him is more 'weary' than 'immature,' but I'm crazy, so forgive me.  I've also addressed that peculiar time in a boy's life when he first realizes girls aren't automatically carriers of something akin to the bubonic plague.

Feedback:  I'll be your best friend!

Disclaimer:  I'm using everything without permission and doing it badly.  Feel the joy?

Set:  Around the age of eight – curse it!

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You would take me to a movie

You would take me to the beach  
You would take me to the place inside

That is so hard to reach…

-Everclear, _'Father of Mine'_

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                Jim was careful to keep the slippery winds on the plateau from tearing away the unsealed box outfitted with the delicate photosensitive canvas he would need to stitch into a strong sail later, and he tried to multitask it: fiddling with the easily marred wiring he was installing in the metal shell, keeping an eye on the landing ports jutting like spokes from the inn, and checking routinely that the box was in place.  A tiny spark struck his finger and he flinched, pulling his hand briefly from the tangled cords to shake it, the mild pain dissipating as quickly as it had appeared, and he blew a breath out.  Biting his lip as he joggled the offending red-swathed wire that had granted him the unexpected blow, he connected it to another red strand, molding the soft material coating the outside of the gleaming wires together.  He reached to the side without turning his head, patting arched fingertips along the rippled stone below the earthen security that bled from the descending stairs up to the inn's homey door, and clutched one of the small bolters, an almost miniature flintlock designed for the purpose of handiwork.  Flicking it on briefly, he leaned his neck forward, eyeing the crackling stream of thin blue as he did his best to keep his hand steady, using the tool to melt the coating into a solid, if temporarily gooey, unity. 

                He grinned, satisfied, and set the tool aside, reaching over the unfinished board to fumble through a second, heavier box made of dented metal for the tiny octagon scales that were dull until given sunlight and reason to activate.  A small handful was jostled into his palm for poking through, selecting with nimble, slender fingers the six best suited ones, and he shook his hand over the smaller box to let gravity take free the ones clinging yet to his palm's shallow lines.  Fitting his fingers over the sharp edges of one of the cells, he picked it from the others beginning to quietly glitter in his hand and held it to the light, peering through the misty orange crystal and smiling broadly.  He scrabbled to his knees, propelling himself forward to his feet, ankles bending oddly, and he staggered in a mild run to a small, elongated rectangle, fisting his hand to keep from spilling the amber-shaded jewel pieces.  

                He dropped the one he held 'twixt fingers cautiously to the ground, settling the five fiery others to a ways from it, and then lowered himself onto one knee, opposing foot scraping over the traces of dust lining the stone an inch or so from the earth piled on the natural rock.  Checking the sky briefly for any sign of approaching ships, he took his hands from a hovering guard over the cells to grab the rectangle box, thumbing the half-panel open to study the thin slots lining the back side, a short distance from the opening.  Jim plucked the segregated disk up, balancing the rectangle on his bent knee to hold it still that he might manage to jab the glittering material into the waiting slot, and tediously worked it in the chosen place, waiting with unusual care for a telling click that meant it was ready.  A few minutes were spent that way, picking one of the other disks by his lowered knee and carefully selecting its perfect slot, edging it in and holding it down to keep it in place.  He had just finished setting the sixth and final one in, leaving eighteen slender spots vacant for more paper thin cells to be chosen, when a telltale wind picked up, whipping strongly at him and tossing the fledgling ponytail at the back of his head twining into a fan on his neck. 

                Scooping the rectangle into his arms, he clapped the panel shut and, ducking low to avoid the strong air current bursting about in dusty waves from the humming whine of the ship lowering to one of the docks further out, hurried to pick his way back to his main work area.  He pushed the lid for the heavy box containing the cells into place, settling it with infinite care in the folds of delicate cloth held in the next box, and wedged the rectangle in as well.  It took some degree of effort to gather the large box into his arms and he found need to abandon his unfinished board, confident that its metallic weight would keep it stationary as the massive ship twisted in a vertical drop, docking with a strong crosswind.

                Staggering again, just a bit, he thumped up the steps to the inn and edged it open with his shoulder to enter, cheeks red from the wind and mild chill, desperately clutching the box.  "Hi, Mister Delbert," he greeted with a smile as the Canine choked on his coffee, inexplicably surprised to see the boy tousled completely with a layer of dust and carrying his largest box of materials.  "Um, have you seen Mom?" he continued, turning to the side and dropping his box, shaking his hand into his sleeve and sneezing into the cloth, wiping at his face.  "I think that musical group just landed."

                "James Pleiades Hawkins!" came a familiar, muffled shout from the kitchen and he winced, looking at the scholar for any form of help and, finding none, creeping to the stairs.  "I thought I told you to keep that solar stuff outside the inn, not in it!"  Though he couldn't help but wonder how, exactly, his mother knew when she was still in the kitchen, he studied his feet guiltily anyway, slowly idling toward the stairs in hopes of escaping before she could find irreversible proof of his transgression.  "Honestly, if your father was here, would you do that?" she continued, an undercurrent of something painful in her voice as she came from the kitchen, laden tray in tow to deposit various bowls to waiting customers.

                "No, ma'am," he replied dutifully, lowering his head so his dark hair hung slightly, the inch or so of hair he had barely scraped into a ponytail coarse against the back of his dirtied neck.  "But I think there's a dust storm coming," he added, "and that big music circus thing that was supposed to be booking here?  It kinda just docked."  Her eyes widened as she lowered a dish of something spicy and fluorescent, and he took advantage of her momentary distraction to dash up the stairs, showering clumps of dirt peeling from his overly large shoes to scatter over the clean wooden steps.

                "James!" she cried, seeing for certain that he had indeed brought the offending box in, as Doppler, adjusting his spectacles, began picking at his food with a skillful fork.

                "Can't hear you, Mom!" he answered, barreling down the hall to his room and closing the door gently to avoid an unnecessary racket, thereby avoiding a later scolding.  He kicked one of his boots off, following it with the other as he pried at it, peeling his socks off and tossing them in the vague direction of a basket he was technically supposed to put his dirty laundry in, not near, and turned to look for a loose shirt and some trousers he could wear after his bath.  Finding ones close enough to the general description, he stuffed them into his arms, skidding over the floor to his bed and digging under his mussed pillow for a sealed envelope.  He checked the scribbled handwriting on the outside, just in case, and smiling widely, placed it somewhere between the articles of clothing he clutched.

                He peeked his head cautiously around the edge of his doorway, not wanting to be caught by any adult figure that would shepherd him down the staircase he could navigate with his eyes blindfolded, and crept along the mirroring stretch of the hallway to the idly closed door of his mother's room.  Holding his things close, he turned the knob and stepped in, shutting the door and listening for the standard click that meant the aged metal had slid sufficiently into its counterpart embedded sturdily into the carved wooden doorframe.  Pausing, curling his toes in the carpeting, he leaned his ear against the door, listening in case she had discovered the trail of dirt left on the stairs, and he crossed his fingers comically, in hopes that by the time she did, it would be late enough for him to use bed as an excuse for hasty escape.  Prudently, he lifted each foot in turn, checking before he crossed her favorite carpet for any scraps of dirt or vegetation possibly clinging to his toes or heels, and having been assured he was as free of it as could be expected, picked a careful path across the swirling exotic pattern of the carpet.  He was thankful and more than a little proud of his recently attained height, a skinny sort of gangly existence that saved him from the ritualistic torment of his unsurprisingly cruel peers, able to stretch his legs farther than a mere four months prior.  Taking advantage of it, he crossed the carpet in stretching strides and clumsy leaps, ducking easily into the adjoined washroom and sending his clothes tumbling to the floor with soft whispers of shifting cloth.

                Jim let his arms fall limp by his sides, the muscles somewhat worn after lugging metal around all day in a determined, stubborn desire to finish his new solar surfer before his father came home again, and he scratched at the back of his ear, shuffling around on his heels to face the wash basin.  Leaning over the gleaming, polished wood, he encircled his fingers around the clean porcelain neck of the pitcher resting on its equally shimmering platter to pour a crystal stream of the cool water onto the platter.  He cupped his hands together and dipped them into the rippling pool, raising a handful of shivering water and splashing it to his dirt-stained face, spitting some of the water out and shaking his wet hands over the deep wooden basin.  The speckles of water trickled down into the drain, vanishing into the inky depths from which they would seep into the earth, and he blew some air out, reaching behind his head to pick at the string tying his hair into the still miniscule ponytail.

                In the carefully tended mirror framed by a swirling design of lacy wood, attached by gleaming, patterned bits of silver, he saw, for the briefest moment, an image of his father, seeing the broader shoulders and heavier chin mixed with the glimmering blue-green eyes they both shared.  It gave him stern reason to slowly weight his arms, growing bored with struggling to untie the string and simply yanking it off, and he leaned forward, trying to recapture the disappearing likeness.  His eyes he knew were like his father's, gleaming jewel tones that were nearly always blue, sometimes verging on a greener shade, and his gradually gaining height, of course, but was he all that much like his father?  "It'd be cool," he said with a smile, shutting the washroom's heavy door and twisting the small gear lock, the tumblers sounding quietly.  

                Kneeling by the relatively clean clothes spilled carelessly on the hard floor, he unwound shirt from pants, shaking both out and setting them aside disinterestedly, his goal being the simple envelope of shaded parchment clutched between the two.  He raised it, sticking fingers under the stiff wax that held the envelope shut in an angled line, peeling the hardened, pearly white wax from it and brushing the crumbling remnants away with his youthful palm.  He leaned against the wall at his back, pushing his weight to it and sliding down, pressing his feet to the solid oak of the basin stretching like a sudden monolith above him, and he flipped the envelope's tongue up, a delightfully anxious feeling overtaking him.  Working the single sheet clasped in its internal wrap, he tossed the envelope aside and unfolded the thrice-bent paper to read the twisting, uneven scrawl of his father's handwriting.

                "Should I read it?" he asked no one present, angling his eyes up as if to ask God for divine permission, and he shrugged his thin shoulders, knees locking in place, flat on the washroom's immaculate floor.  Taking a preserving swallow of the cool, milling air in the room, he flicked his eyes to the ceiling cast into light and shadows by the large, fat candle hidden by a bulging shield of glass, waiting for a second or two in case something might stop him from reading.  Nothing presented itself at the moment and he smiled, turning his rapt attention to the letter.

                "'Dear James,'" he read solemnly, dropping his arms slightly to rest them on his thighs, and he continued, his smile widening just a bit at his father's formality, "'I haven't written many letters before, not to you or anyone at all.  I don't like having to sit down and write them, but I thought my son deserved at least one letter from me.'"  Pausing briefly, letting the soft trickling of time come to mind, he nodded and slouched forward, mouthing the words in subdued movements of his lips as he shifted into silence, reading it from the beginning once more:

                _Dear James,_

_                I haven't written many letters before, not to you or anyone at all.  I don't like having to sit down and write them, but I thought my son deserved at least one letter from me._

_I've been doing a lot of thinking out here, about the way my life is going, and I'm tired of a lot of things.  I hate having to choose between the Etherium and my family, and one day you'll understand.  You're still a boy, James, and things come to you as you grow.  You'll learn to be a man someday._

_                This is a difficult thing, writing a letter, but I'll give you this.  I care about you, James, you and your mum both, and I want you to always know that.  I haven't given you a lot, and I haven't taught you a lot, but my father didn't try to teach me and I learned anyway.  You'll understand that later, too, and remember that in many things there aren't many people who can help you.  Always be ready to take care of yourself._

_                I'm coming home soon, maybe a month after this gets to Montressor, and I swear I won't be leaving again.  Like I said, I've been doing a lot of thinking, and maybe it's time I stopped coming and going.  I won't be able to teach you much, but I'll do my best.  If you have any questions, keep them until I'm home and we'll go over them together, okay?_

_                See you soon,_

"'Leland Hawkins,'" said Jim softly, finishing it aloud and slowly refolding the paper into even lengths, the smile on his face widening until it threatened to shatter his cheeks.  Snatching the envelope up, he tried to shove the letter back in with a standard lack of grace, and that failing, he wedged it in, the paper buckling slightly in its regained bonds and adding a looping fold to it.  He scrambled to his feet and, preparing to launch himself out the locked door and downstairs, yelling for his mother to come and read the letter that had come in the golden afternoon, froze, hearing a hesitant knock at the bathroom door.  An image of thick, heavy soil on the freshly cleaned stairs took momentary precedence over his father's return.

                "Jim?" came an equally hesitant voice and he visibly relaxed, recognizing the familiar tenor of Delbert, rolling his eyes with friendly sarcasm.  "Are you in there?"  The doorknob jiggled a little and, suddenly realizing that it was very possible his mother had sent the easily flustered scholar up to drag him downstairs for inevitable punishment, he lunged to the wooden tub, frantically catching the string dangling from the carved spout.  

Tugging sharply down, there was an echoing rumble from deep in the recesses of the heavy water tank bolted to the backside of the inn and, swiftly, a fountain of chilly water burst into the tub, thundering sharp droplets to the surface.  He passed his hand quickly over the twinkling panel set deep into the side of the tub, keying the heating power on, and a resonating hum sparked, thrumming through the tub with a sudden cascade of heat that would strike the hurling water to a comfortable heat some degrees below a painful steam.  "I'm taking a bath, Delbert," he shouted, voice barely carrying over the sound of the water, and he thumped over the floor, gathering his fresh clothes and tossing them to the side, stuffing the letter carefully into a pocket of the pants.  "Geez, why else would I be in here?"

"Urm, well, Jim," came a decisively embarrassed tone from the other side of the door as he skimmed his shirt off, a button at the top of the collar snagging momentarily in his hair, "your mother just wanted to know if you were all right.  She also wanted me to tell you that if you are all right, she is planning on some rather painful forms of, er, punishment.  If you want my advice, take a nice, long – very, very long – bath and fake illness."  With that, the doctor strode away from the door in his loping, hurried steps, and Jim leaned toward the door, balancing on his back foot as he listened for any possible sounds that implied anyone was out there, such as his mother.

Hearing none, he plucked his shirt off of his wrists, kicking it over the floor toward the washbasin and looking at his scrawny arms, frowning deeply at the continued proof of his apparent inability to grow anything but taller.  "Skin and bones," his mother had said the week before, shaking her head as she bound a skinned knee with a patch to heal the cut in the day's passage.  "You're still skin and bones, Jim."  He decided that if being skin and bones meant he was going to resemble a rail for all of secondary school, then it was undoubtedly a bad thing indeed.

Padding over to the tub, he stared into the swirling depths, a miniature whirlpool swarming about as the tub was slowly filled, a metal oval having switched out upon his palming the heater pad to cover the drainpipe, and glanced at the candle.  With a shrug, he smacked the heel of his hand to a small orange circle embedded firmly in the glazed wall, sending the identical trails of light encircling the ceiling into brilliant existent as he moved to blow the candle's flame out.  The vain flicker was extinguished, replaced by the brighter glows of the rarely used ceiling lights, and he stuck his hand into the water to feel if it was balanced perfectly between scalding and sternly warm, wiggling his fingers mildly in it and nodding that it was of an appropriate temperature.

-

Pounding down the stairs, head facing the steps as his damp feet threatened to slide right over the edge of each next drop, plummeting him awkwardly to the floor at the bottom, Jim clasped the guardrail with a strong grip, rotating his ankles easily to all but glide down the steps.  The boyish forcefulness of preadolescence interrupted his otherwise perfect descent, adding noisy rhythmic stomps to his each movement, and he paused for a second, guiltily recognizing that the dirt had been scooped aside on the staircase.  It was past closing time for the inn, late enough that people were kindly, but firmly dissuaded from entering, yet early enough that those who were paying to stay the night had no fear of being sent packing to their crisply tended beds.  This was a double blessing: on the one hand it meant he wouldn't be scolded in front of people he knew by first name, and on the other it meant his mother would be much freer with her scolding and likely grounding of his youthful rights.

Swirling at the end step, catching his equilibrium with some care to keep from tumbling off the last step and flat on his face, he raised his head, wet hair tied back by a plain white string, and nearly hugged the round knobbed block of the rail's end.  Apparently, he had completely forgotten the Wagner Musical Troupe was staying the night, and he knew his eyes were much rounder than normal, startled and horrified to see the eclectic bundle of several people gaily seated about a long table they had erected by pushing several other tables together.  He was, in a nutshell of a word, doomed.  His mother had no mercy.  He had ruined her stairs, however superficially, and come heaven, high water, or the Lord's sovereign-and-undeniable prayer, he was never going to see the light of day again without wondering if the troupe remembered the boy they had watched being massacred.

One of the few women in the troupe, a tanned individual with stringy black hair and a few rather painful-looking piercings dotting her face, glanced up from arguing with two thin Insects and spotted with an almost alarming accuracy the light-set boy frozen at the bottom of the stairs.  "'Ey, lad," she called, leaning forward to cross her arms over the table and smile in a friendly manner, causing the ring in her lip to look not quite as menacing as before, "whatcha doin' jus' standin' there?  We ain't gonna bites ya."  She moved back, gesturing helplessly about her at the varying creatures to her left and right, and he was discomforted to find the horror was replaced with a sort of nausea that wasn't sickening, but unusual.  "Shove to th' side, Ruma," she snapped, elbowing one of the Insects, a lanky bug that resembled a mosquito, and it grudgingly obliged, making a scant space between her hips and its body.  

"Wanna sit here, laddie-day?" she asked rhetorically, waving him over with a hand, and he did so, finding his tongue suddenly too heavy for him to say anything; a part of his mind that wasn't acting completely weird informed him that maybe he could hide from his bustling mother for the time being, seeing as she was in the kitchen again what with the few cooks they had having been granted leave an hour before.  "Come on now, squeeze in," she helped, by way of yanking down on his arm and sending him clattering on to the bench beside her.  Laughing wholeheartedly, she slapped his shoulder lightly and bit into one of the rolls lined in the baskets around the table.  "You the one as to made the board we found and brought in?" she asked around it, chewing thoughtfully and jabbing her thumb at the metal carcass he had left outside in the rush to get inside the inn.  

Jim tried to think of something, anything, that he could possibly say in reply, and simply settled with focusing his eyes on the table, a sudden heat infusing the youthfully soft skin of his cheeks as he nodded mutely, unable to tell why exactly he was suddenly having difficulty when he usually could hardly shut up.  A few chuckles came from the Insects and the clownish humans seated near him, and the needle-nosed Insect dug a sharp elbow into his side, grunting something in a silvery voice that sounded very much like an insult and he flushed a deeper red, stung even though he had only the faintest clue of the meaning.  

"Leave 'im be, ya mindless twit," she snapped, leaning over his head and smacking the back of her hand into the hard skin over the bulbous, rainbow-faceted eye on the Insect, Ruma.  "'T'ain't ya place ta be makin' fun a the proprietor's son, nitwit," she continued, tongue acidly sharp, and Jim looked up at her, at the dark face smeared with exotic ebony shadow over piercing black eyes matching the shaded tint of her pierced lip.  The feeling of nausea in his stomach, one sort of like that of flying or – well, he wasn't too sure what it was like, but it was apparently caused by her and he wondered if maybe he was getting sick.  When she spoke again, it was in a gentler voice, prodding his shoulder with a long finger as she asked, "Ain't ya pater taught ya how to be speakin' with ladies?"

"If you're a lady, Irine," one of the man, a severe looking one with white eyes and tendrils of inky hair growing in sentient waves such as tentacles, wafting slightly in the air, "then Ruma here is a god to whom we ought to prostrate ourselves."  Those listening in on the odd conversation snorted, masking laughter or showing it blatantly, and the woman beside Jim stuck her tongue out rudely at the man, her hand on the boy's shoulder in a protective gesture.

"You shouldn't talk to girls like that," said Jim before he had opportunity to think on the wisdom of his words, his tone almost impudent but not quite, and he glanced at the table.  "Mom says it's wrong to talk to girls the way you just did," he continued, voice nearly dying into an incomprehensible mumble, and several of the males started laughing callously.

"Y'want I should pop ya nose open?" Irine demanded, raising her fist in obvious threat as she narrowed her dark eyes at them, her fingers squeezing comfortingly into his shoulder.  "'Cause so help m'God, I ain't gonna back down from no imbecile the likes a ya."  She sneered again, flipping an obscene gesture at the four across from her and turned to Jim, who had begun to smile shyly.  "I think it's cute that ya listen to y'mum, unlike some a these ungrateful slobs," she shot a dirty look across the table, black shawl coated with lace and silver beads shifting as she moved her head slightly, "an' don't get t'frettin' 'bout anythin' the lugs be sayin' to ya, laddie-day."  

She smiled at him, a smile that was unlike any he had received from those older to him, one that had no hint of condescension and was not patronizing, but somehow as sincere as the ones his mother would give him when she told him things about the worlds he would fly to one day.  It was like an explosion in the back of his head that made him feel as though he were flying, like being given the largest bowl of chocolate ice cream in the entire universe and all the time in the world to eat it, like his entire face had been lanced through with a thousand majestic pinpricks of sunlight, and it was all from a smile.  He put the question of wanting to know why in that box he had in the back of his head, wanting to ask his father about it, and simply smiled back, a tentative twist of his lips.

"Now," she began, stabbing a finger toward the unfinished, rough board laid to rest on the floor by the booth near the evening blackened bay window, "is that y'board?  It's not a professional one, mind ya, but it's a piece a work, 'specially for a kid as young as you.  Ya pater teach ya the makin' of it?  Lovely thing for a boy'n his pater t'make t'gether.  If'n I ain't a been a girl when I was born, my own mighta taken the time a the day t'teach me the way to make it all cheap-like and efficient."  
                Though he did not understand what she meant by pater initially, he figured it out quickly enough, as he did most things, and tried to hide the disappointment it brought inside.  "My dad and I haven't had a lotta time together," he said quietly, looking at the board and trying to think of what the days spent laboring on the handmade surfer before it would have been akin to had his father been there, "an' I've been making it on my own."

"What's with this face y'got here?" she interjected, pulling his attention away quickly, and he glanced up at her, saddened face coloring at the placid smile she gave him soothingly.  "Now, see, it ain't be fittin' someone such as y'self, what with this lovely piece a hair y'got in the back."  Nimble fingers tugged playfully at the small ponytail he had painstakingly bunched together, drawing already tightly pulled hair even closer together and pinching his scalp enough to give him reason to wince as she turned to declare in a scolding fashion to those around her, "Each a ya could be learnin' somethin' from the laddie-day's style here.  I been sayin' it f'years, what's a crew without someone's a mullet, eh?  Cain't be a crew at all, e'en a singin' one at that."

"The boy doesn't have a mullet, Irine," the man from before state wearily, with sarcastic jest in his voice, and Ruma made a skittering sound of obnoxious approval.  Jim felt at his ponytail, swirling his head slowly around as he tried to judge the faces of those around him, shifting on the bench with Irine scowling at all those about.

"Or," she enunciated clearly, overriding the interjecting comment in a self-contained way, "leastwise some proper tail a hair at the back a ya head.  Laddie-day ain't got a pater, but he's got hisself, which is the on'y thing ya need.  He's got a proper style a hair, he knows how to be the makin' a boards, and he knows 'ow t'be treatin' a lady.  I think he's gonna be doin' fine for hisself soon as he gets out into that sprawlin' ether singin' his bally name, so you twits can get to the shuttin' up stage."

He smiled again, looking to her as she grinned and planted her hand on his head, rubbing her palm fiercely and friendly through his damp hair, and didn't mind the blushing or the strange feeling in his stomach anymore.  They were still there, but he knew he could ask his father later, and there was something else he couldn't explain about the feeling of sheer niceness, he supposed it was.

"James, would you please take your things to your room and leave the guests in peace?" his mother, harried and carefully weaving to the makeshift long-table, asked in a warning voice he had long grown accustomed to, and he sprang up from the bench, nearly tripping.

"Yes, ma'am," he said dutifully, ears turning red when he heard several members of the troupe guffawing and elbowing each other at his loss.  "Thanks," he added to Irine, smiling as he took a step backwards toward his waiting, docile board.

"See?" she exclaimed.  "He's got the smile any heartbreaker would be wantin' an' he's a lot more civilized than you rowdy buffoons."  Irine glowered at the men across from her as Sarah, shaking her head and stifling a small laugh of her own, rested several plates of steaming food before them all.  "I'll bet ya he ain't ne'er see a lick a trouble in his day, an' that you lot be the ones doin' licking, for scraps."

Outside the wind howled, sending streams of numbing dust into windows and boards, funneling around the sturdy plateau hosting the Benbow Inn in silent, perfect grace, and as Jim hoisted his board into his arms, struggling just a bit with the weight, he took a moment to turn the screen to an image of brilliant sunlit seas.  He kept his heart secret, thinking on the disconcerting woman just a few feet from him and knowing that his father was coming home.

Coming home, the wind sang to him outside, coming home!

--

--

End Notes:  I am suspicious that Irine's character was influenced greatly by Ellie from 'About a Boy.'   Do note that, though it says Leland was a miner, I'm stubbornly insistent that he had to have been involved with the etherium somehow.  Off-planet mining, perhaps?  *cheesy grin*  And, yes, I know Jim's eyes are more blue than green, but I swear they look green in a few scenes.  That and I'm a stubborn delusional idiot, but who's taking notes?

Thanks:  _Katarik, _yes, I know.  *sad face*  It's probably only going to get more melodramatic as the story continues (until…well, I'm actually not too sure yet).  _Tigrin, _^^.  Everything seems rather bittersweet, doesn't it?  In any case, I've always felt that Leland can't have been a totally horrible father, just not a particularly good one – and, after all, there have to be some happy spots, no?  Thanks, both!  Very appreciated.

-Palla.


End file.
